


sorry for punching you in the face, bro

by zoeyclarke



Category: Zoey's Extraordinary Playlist (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Borderline crack, Dark Comedy, F/F, Fights, Kidnapping, M/M, Making Out, Murder Mystery, also pretty much everyone is gay, also there is simon/max if you squint, also tobin quotes vines but we already knew that, and remember kids this is not meant to be taken seriously, if it's not specified just assume it, so everyone here is either an asshole or a badass, there are character deaths but not major ones imo
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-07
Updated: 2020-05-09
Packaged: 2021-03-02 19:26:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 11,537
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24062092
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/zoeyclarke/pseuds/zoeyclarke
Summary: Dynamic detective duo Tobin Batra and Leif Donnelly are called to investigate the murder of Charlie Bennett, an arrogant billionaire who was the incompetent CEO of SPRQ Point. From the moment Tobin and Leif arrive at the sprawling Bennett Estate, it becomes clear things are more amiss than they originally thought. To make matters worse, Charlie's disgruntled widow, Joan, is being less than cooperative— and she seems to be unusually close with Zoey Clarke, her husband's former assistant who has some secrets of her own. (AKA: my take on a Zoey's Playlist crackfic/whodunit.)
Relationships: Tobin Batra/Leif Donnelly, Zoey Clarke/Joan
Comments: 18
Kudos: 34





	1. an odd beginning

**Author's Note:**

> as most of my writing is these days, this was inspired by quarantine boredom, and i needed something to help fill the hole in my heart since season 1 is over. i also took inspiration from jane levy's stellar performances in action/horror flicks, so that's where badass!zoey comes from. anyway, this fic is hella wacky but it was super fun to write, so i hope people get at least some enjoyment out of it! thanks for reading :)

Gravel crunches under the tires of an electric blue Subaru WRX as it turns onto a long, winding driveway. The path is lined by tidy hedges that have been meticulously trimmed into the shape of corkscrews. The car drives along, following the unpaved road as it snakes between trees and flower bushes. Finally, an enormous mansion appears in the distance— the light at the end of a  _ long _ tunnel.

The Subaru approaches the loop at the end of the endless driveway, then pulls into an empty space at the bottom of a staircase leading up to the grand front door. The car comes to a stop with a peppy little jerk, parking behind a black Tesla. Moments later, the driver’s side door swings open, a My Chemical Romance song blasting out of the car’s stereo and spilling onto the quiet, manicured lawn. The music is cut off when the passenger door opens and feet clad in a pair of spotless Sperrys land on the gravel.

Leif shuts his door and spins to peer at Tobin over the roof of the car. “Okay, so—” He stops short when he sees his companion pull a pipe out of thin air, light it, and take a long, obnoxious puff. “Really? Can you stop with the pipe, Sherlock?”

Tobin arches one brow, squinting at him through the haze of smoke shrouding his face. He disguises a cough into an indignant throat clearing and replies, “Okay. What’s the magic word?”

Leif gives an exaggerated groan, stepping carefully over the gravel. “Please?”

“Nope. Try again.”

Leif pauses, considering. “Umm... I don’t— oh! Weed?”

Tobin grins, immediately putting out the pipe and dropping it back in the car. “Yup. Weed.”

“So you’re just gonna go back to smoking weed?”

“I’m just gonna go back to smoking weed,” Tobin confirms. “But not right now, because...” He crouches down at the side of the Subaru, twisting his wrist, sticking out a thumb, and expertly swiping it along the bottom of the driver’s side door. When he stands up again, he’s examining the residue on his thumb like it’s the ashes left over from a fiery demonic sacrifice.

Leif leans over to look at it too. “What is it?”

Slowly Tobin’s eyes drift up from his hand to Leif’s face. He leans in close like they’re telling scary stories over a campfire, and Leif can practically see the shadows flickering over his face and hooding his eyes. Then Tobin says in the most ominous tone he can muster, “It’s...  _ pause for effect...  _ dust.”

Leif’s curious expression morphs into one of unadulterated annoyance. “Okay, first of all, you’re not supposed to actually say ‘pause for effect,’ you just... pause for effect. Second, fuck you, dude.” He turns away and starts marching up to the door. 

“Fuck you too, bro,” Tobin calls after him. A moment later, he adds as an afterthought, “No homo, though.” Then he winks.

They’re almost at the door when they’re intercepted by an older woman who looks to be the resident gardener, if her tied-back hair, soil-streaked tank top, and the shears dangling from her grasp are any clues. Her free hand is held up in a friendly wave which turns to a beckon with her index finger. “Hello, boys! I hope you don’t mind sparing a minute for me before you go inside.”

Tobin and Leif hesitate, exchanging a dubious glance before returning their attention to the stranger. “Hey, what’s up?” Tobin chirps, stepping up to her and offering his hand. “Up top! Down low! Ah, too slow.”

Leif bites his tongue, knowing he can be better at observing things if he stays quiet.

Meanwhile, his partner lowers his hand from the aborted high-five, maintaining his grin despite the awkwardness. “So, who are you?” Tobin asks. “And nice garden shears, by the way.”

* * *

“Okay, not to rile you up again, because I know you just spent like two hours arguing with Simon, but... they’re here.”

_ “What?” _ Joan hisses, hurrying to peek through the gap in the curtains. Sure enough, their somewhat-invited guests have arrived. Though her vantage point isn’t the best, Joan sees all she needs to immediately confirm what she already suspected: she’s going to fuckin’  _ hate  _ these guys. One is wearing a  _ hoodie,  _ for god’s sake, and the other is in a cardigan with a tucked-in tie and super tight pants; the outfit could only be any more gay if he were to tie a sweater around his shoulders. In short, they look like a couple of dorks who took a wrong turn on their way home from the studio that films  _ The Big Bang Theory.  _

Zoey steps back from the other window, crossing the room towards Joan only to retreat again. Oh, great, she’s pacing. That’s never a good sign. “Listen, Joan, you  _ did  _ hire them, and for good reason—”

“I hired them,” Joan growls, twisting to throw a glare over her shoulder, “because you told me to.”

“It won’t be that bad,” Zoey says, halting momentarily to deflect Joan’s scowl with one of her “This Is Actually Really Bad ™ ” gritted-teeth smiles. “I mean, their Google reviews were mediocre at best. One said they’re the Sherlock and Holmes of 2020, if Sherlock and Holmes was really bad fanfiction. And another person complained one of them stole all the food out of their fridge, including a whole lobster.”

Joan groans, closing the curtain and slouching down on the chaise lounge under the window. “Ugh, I bet it was the tall, twiggy one who took the lobster. He looks like he has a great metabolism.”

Zoey comes over to perch herself beside Joan, hugging one of the velvet pillows to her chest. “We’ll be  _ fine,”  _ she insists. Joan feels an arm rest over her shoulders, and instinctively she leans into Zoey’s embrace. “Please, at least  _ try  _ to tolerate them, okay? We don’t wanna look suspicious, right? So we’ll talk to them, tell them what we know, and then they’ll leave. It’ll be just like the interviews with the police, except, um... more laidback.”

Joan looks over at her and rolls her eyes. “Yeah, yeah, alright. Let’s just get this over with.” Together, they stand from the sofa and Joan takes one last opportunity to spy on their visitors through the window. “What do you think Maggie’s saying to them?”

Next to her, Zoey nibbles at her lip, but her voice is unwavering when she says, “You already know.” She resumes pacing again, but Joan stops her after only one lap. She bends down and meets the younger woman’s round blue eyes with a smile.

“Come on, no need to pace. It’s like you said— we’ll be fine.” Zoey offers nothing but a shaky smile in return; then Joan pecks her forehead and takes her hand, leading her out of the room.

* * *

“Well, she was a cool lady, huh?” Tobin remarks. He stares at Maggie as she continues trimming some ivy clinging to the brick on the side of the house. “I mean, she’s no expert at high fives, but I’ll give her a pass for that ‘cause she works some  _ magic  _ with these plants.” He frames the word “magic” with snazzy jazz hands.

“Yeah,” Leif hums, his gaze also lingering on her for a minute. “She’s... interesting.” His eyes follow the movement of her garden shears snip, snip, snipping away at the ivy. Then, with his shoulders squared and a determined furrow in his brow, Leif sets off toward the front door of the mansion.

In two paces, Tobin has caught up to him. He’s still humming the rest of the MCR hit they’d been unable to finish before they got here. Leif presses the doorbell, which prompts Tobin to grumble about wanting to use the badass lion’s head door knocker instead. Then the next instant, the door swings open, revealing a hella fine guy wearing a slightly disheveled suit.

“Um, hello?” Leif asks rather than says. He supposes he shouldn’t be surprised that it wasn’t the aggrieved widow herself who answered the door— but then again, she had seemed quite adamant about keeping her hiring of them under wraps when they talked on the phone.

Luckily, Tobin swoops in where Leif stumbles. “Hey!” he greets the stranger, smirking and offering up one half of what turns out to be a pretty baller fist bump. “How’s it shaking, bro? The name’s Tobin, and this handsome himbo magnet right here is Leif. We’re here to see Joan?”

The guy understands Leif’s cue and only does a simple handshake with him, which Leif appreciates. “Nice to meet you two,” he says. “I mean, as nice as it can be, considering the circumstances, I guess. I’m Simon Haynes, I was just on my way out. Joan should be waiting for you inside.” 

Simon starts to squeeze between them, only to be stopped by Leif. “Wait, who are— um, how do you know Joan, exactly?”

“Oh... I’m, um, I’m her lawyer,” Simon tells them. “Or, I  _ was  _ her lawyer. But not anymore. She scared off the last dude, and now she’s finally gotten rid of me, too.” He tries to get past them again, lifting up the clicker to the Tesla, which unlocks with an eager chirp.

Tobin frowns. “But why does she hate lawyers? I mean, I get it, you’re  _ lawyers,  _ but still.” He does that irritating beard-rubbing motion which Leif despises because it maybe-kind-of-definitely turns him on (but just, like, lowkey turns him on). Still, though, he can’t deny that his partner has brought up a valid point, so he also turns expectantly toward Simon and waits for an answer.

“Ah, well.” Simon scratches behind his head. “I’m not sure how much I should share, but... let’s just say she doesn’t like how Charlie left his will— which, you know, totally isn’t my fault. It’s not like _I_ told him to leave the entirety of SPRQ Point to his 15-year-old nephew, so there’s _no_ reason for her to shoot the messenger—” He stops himself, closing his eyes and taking a deep, steadying breath. “But I digress. Anyway, I really should get going. It was nice meeting you two.” Finally he’s able to wrestle himself free from their questioning looks, hurrying to the Tesla and taking off back down the gravel road.

Tobin and Leif are left to shrug at each other, then without further ado they step inside the house. “Hello?” Leif calls out, glancing back and forth. The two front rooms appear to be empty. “Mrs. Bennett?” he tries again, peering down the hallway paralleling the staircase. He’s about to try calling her phone when suddenly there’s footsteps on the stairs.

“Oh, what do you know, Max is slacking on the job  _ again.  _ What are butlers even for, anyway?” The footsteps and complaint, both equally grouchy in nature, also both belong to a brunette who’s making her way downstairs. Upon first glance, Leif guesses she’s somewhere in her mid-forties, her age only given away by the exhausted wrinkles carved into her forehead. Leif also can’t help but admire her impeccable sense of style; with feet tucked into a pair of Louboutins and a gown straight out of the Met Gala, she may as well be throwing wads of cash around like a flower girl tossing petals at a wedding.

When she reaches the bottom of the stairs, she fixes a set of icy blue eyes on Leif and Tobin, appraising them as if they’re meager offerings at a flea market. “So,” she says after a pause barely long enough to be awkward,  _ “you guys _ are the private detectives?”

Leif can’t say he likes the way her eyes are raking them up and down, clearly unimpressed. He’d told Tobin this morning to just  _ try  _ and squeeze into his sweater vest, to at least  _ try  _ to look professional, but of  _ course  _ he didn’t listen. The purple hoodie  _ always  _ wins.

“Yep,” Tobin answers, crossing his arms and grinning broadly at her. “We do some, uh... private detective-ing every now and then.”

“Yes, we’re the detectives,” Leif offers a better answer, stepping forward and shaking her hand. “And I’m assuming you’re Joan?”

“Unfortunately,” Joan says with a curt nod. “So you guys want something to drink? Water, coffee? No? Good.” She steps off the landing and motions for them to follow her into one of the front rooms, a small parlor filled with minimal furniture— just a loveseat, two chairs, a coffee table, and a plush area rug that feels like memory foam under their feet.

Tobin and Leif look at each other, then at their seating options, then back at each other. With a shrug, they both squeeze onto the loveseat together. Joan takes one of the open chairs and shoots them a strange look, but doesn’t comment. Their choice proves to make sense when Joan immediately interrupts Leif to yell, “Zoey!”

A pretty, petite redhead enters the room, her hands clasped tightly in front of her. She has similarly piercing blue eyes, but there’s a softer quality to them that’s unlike the barbed edge in Joan’s glare. She’s also more modestly dressed in a collared shirt layered under a polka-dotted sweater. Her appearance certainly places her on the pedestal of innocence, but Leif isn’t ready to trust her quite yet.

“Yeah?” Zoey asks. She only has eyes for Joan; when Leif glances from one to the other, there’s an obvious electricity crackling between them. He shoots a sly look over at Tobin, who catches his eye and gives him the tiniest nod of understanding. Yeah, Joan and Zoey have  _ definitely  _ banged at some point.

“My patience level is already at zero, I need you here as a buffer,” Joan mutters. She points to the empty chair, and Zoey obediently seats herself on the very edge of it, as if she’s prepared to spring up at a moment’s notice.

“So,” Leif begins for the second time, leaning forward and staring intently at Joan. “First things first— we’re sorry for your loss.”

Joan twists her mouth into a grimace and waves him off. “Eh.”

“Thank you,” Zoey pipes up, glaring at Joan for a split second before reverting back to the doe-eyed pout. She smiles solemnly at the men, and Leif takes note of her bouncing knee. “Sorry, it’s just, um— I’m afraid Joan is a little short on words. She’s just so devastated, as I’m sure you can imagine.”

Leif narrows his eyes. “I’m sorry, who are you?”

“I’m, uh...” Again, Zoey peers over at Joan for... help? Reassurance? Attention? Leif can’t be sure.

“Hey, Lil’ Red, don’t sweat it. Just look at Leif and answer my man’s question,” says Tobin.

Zoey’s mouth opens, then closes, then opens again. She looks like a fish that’s been yanked out of its pond and left to flop helplessly on the shore. “I’m—”

“She’s my assistant,” Joan interrupts. “And my... friend. Here for moral support. Now if you wouldn’t mind asking questions about the  _ deceased  _ person, that would be great.”

“Of course,” Leif responds, rapidly scrawling notes into the imaginary notebook in his mind. He thinks about the confidential info on the case that had been “forwarded” to him and Tobin (i.e. they totally hacked the database, because the cops aren’t exactly their friends here). “Now, it’s my understanding, Mrs. Bennett, that your marriage with Charlie was on the rocks at the time of his passing. Is that correct?”

“It is.”

Leif nods. “Right, because on our phone call, you told me, and I quote, ‘He was a big-time asshole.’”

“I did say that, yes.”

“So then I hope you don’t take offense when I say your statement there seems  _ awfully  _ suspicious in regard to a  _ murder  _ investigation.”

Joan snorts out a laugh. “You can’t be serious, Loaf— or whatever your name is. You happened to catch me in a moment of bitter anger that day, that’s all,” she says, gesticulating wildly as if her hands will come up with any words her mouth can’t. “Doesn’t mean I killed the man!”

Leif’s eyes flash over to Zoey. She’s now made herself more comfortable, slumping down in her chair and staring ahead at nothing in particular.

Tobin scoots forward and clears his throat. As he moves, his arm brushes Leif’s and it sends a burst of warmth crashing into his chest. His heart starts slamming against his ribcage as if it’s trying to escape the heat.

“On the death certificate, which we definitely viewed legally, it said Charlie’s throat was slit and he had defense wounds on his hands. But the test results for the DNA they took from under his fingernails were inconclusive,” Tobin explains, counting each factor on a finger. “And he was found in the—”

“In the garden, yes. We know all this already,” Joan snaps. “Poor Zoey found him and she was traumatized. Can you ask something new? I’d like to know who killed my husband before I got the chance to.” Her eyebrows lift in the most subtle of smiles, but when nobody laughs she gives a groan of exasperation and shakes her head. “Well, it’s good to know everyone here has a winning sense of humor.”

Tobin grins apologetically. “If it’s not a Vine quote, I’m not interested.”

Leif sighs. “With all due respect, Mrs. Bennett—”

“For the love of god,  _ please  _ stop calling me that.”

“Okay then, with all due respect,  _ Joan,  _ in order to do the job that  _ you _ hired us for, we need to gather all the background info we can—”

Leif’s attention is pulled away from his rather uncooperative client by a new unfamiliar face. In the doorway stands a slim blonde wearing a smudged white apron. She swipes at her fraying ponytail and gives the occupants of the room a stiff smile. “Please excuse my interruption.” Her bright eyes shift over to rest solely on Joan. “Lunch is ready.”

Right away Zoey hops to her feet as if her chair is suddenly electric. She links an arm through the servant’s and they disappear back down the hall, whispering softly to each other.

“Thank you, Autumn,” Joan deadpans, eyes rolling to the ceiling as she rises from her bored slouch. She glances over at her guests. “Well, I guess if you want to join us...” She shrugs and starts after where Zoey and Autumn scurried off to.

Naturally Leif’s interest is piqued, so he makes to follow her, but a rogue hand from Tobin snags the crook of his elbow and pulls him back. “Uh, we’ll be there in a minute, Mrs. B— Joan! We just have to, umm... go grab something from the car. That cool with you?” No response is recieved except for an indifferent grunt which may not even be directed at them. “Okay, cool! See you in a sec.” Then Tobin tightens his hold on Leif’s arm and all but drags him back through the front door.

Once they’re outside, Leif rips his arm free and pins a fiery glare on his partner. “Dude, what the hell are you doing? We need to spend every possible second in there with those people, otherwise we might miss a vital clue! Are you okay?”

“Oh, thanks for checking in,  _ I’m still a piece of garbage!” _ Tobin intones and then, to Leif’s utter horror, he dabs. “No, but actually, I kinda just wanna make out because it’s  _ super  _ hot when you’re all flustered and annoyed, and—”

Leif suffocates whatever he’d been planning to say, lunging forward and bringing their lips together. Then he thinks twice about it, breaking the kiss and scanning their surroundings to make sure Maggie the gardener isn’t there to witness anything. When the coast is officially clear, Leif eagerly plunges back into their moment. Tobin takes several backward steps, intentionally guiding them towards their car. Without so much as a glance over his shoulder, Tobin unlocks the door and pulls it open. Leif pushes him down onto the seat, consuming his mouth in a ravenous kiss. He tastes like maple syrup, a reminder of the enormous stack of pancakes Tobin had for breakfast this morning. Leif is a two-sips-of-black-coffee-and-go kind of guy, but Tobin is precisely the opposite, and he tends to consume an entire day’s worth of calories in just one meal.  _ “Gotta love the sky-high metabolism, brother!”  _

Tobin slides all the way into the car, easily navigating around the tight space because they  _ may  _ have done this once or twice before. Leif lets the door fall shut, enclosing them in semi-privacy. Tobin starts to crawl into the backseat, which can only be accessed from the inside since this is a two-door, but Leif holds him back. “No, we don’t have time,” he pants. “If we don’t get back in there soon—”

He’s interrupted by Tobin resuming the kiss, tangling his fingers in Leif’s hair and urging him closer so that their foreheads brush together. By now it’s like second nature for Leif to blindly reach down and tug at the lever on the side of the seat, making it jerk back into a reclined position. Tobin lays flat on his back while Leif sits astride him, hands roaming away from Tobin’s face and slipping underneath his hoodie. Leif is dismayed to find he has a t-shirt on as well, yet another prohibitive layer between him and the soft warmth of Tobin’s bare chest. 

Tobin’s mouth starts to stray from Leif’s so he can leave a trail of kisses down his neck, and Leif moans into Tobin’s shoulder when he nips at a sensitive spot. He’s nearly to the point of seeing stars when suddenly Tobin’s lips freeze halfway down his throat. Leif sits up slightly, trying to catch his breath as he peers down at him. “What... what’s wrong?” he gasps.

“Did you hear that?” Tobin whispers. His brows are knitted together, and he’s trying to prop himself up on his elbows. Leif strains to listen, but all he can hear in the confined space of the car is their loud breathing, and all he can feel is the heat under Tobin’s hoodie, the sizzling aftermath of Tobin’s lips on his skin— Tobin, Tobin, Tobin.

“No, I didn’t. What are you—”

“We need to get back in there,” Tobin interrupts, kicking open the door and wriggling out from underneath Leif in one quick motion. They stumble out of the car, not bothering to lock it in their rush to get back to the house. Before they invite themselves back inside, though, Tobin pauses at the door and pulls Leif into one of their secret five-step fist bumps. “Nice make out sesh, bro. No homo.”

Mildly annoyed that he let himself get too caught up in the world of Tobin, and as a result likely missed something important, Leif can only muster a half-hearted reciprocation of the fist bump. “Yeah, okay. So what did you hear?” he demands, shoving the door open with one shoulder and peering curiously down the foyer. The room they were in before with Joan and Zoey is still abandoned, as is the spacious office across the hall. There’s no sign of anyone on the stairs, so the only logical way to go is straight ahead to the back of the house.

“A crash,” Tobin whispers, right behind Leif as they tiptoe toward where the others went. “And a yelp of some kind, I dunno. It was far away, so I couldn’t hear it too well.”

When they’ve almost reached the dining room, Tobin’s hand again catches on Leif’s arm. “What now?” Leif hisses, glaring back at him. But Tobin only offers him a lopsided grin, then silently adjusts Leif’s tie, which must’ve gotten loose in their... umm... gay wrestling match in the car. Leif looks at his tie then back up at his companion, tugging his shirt collar away from his flushed neck. “Thanks,” he says.

“No problemo, bro-ito,” Tobin replies, and with that settled they creep into the dining room— but it’s empty. Leif swings his head around, scribbling details into his mental notebook. The table is set, but the plates and silverware are untouched. Extravagant platters of food are placed in the center of the table: roast beef in a bed of potatoes and carrots, a plate of spiralized vegetables arranged by the colors of the rainbow, a bloody knife, a bowl of bread that Tobin is already reaching one hand into, a— hold up. A bloody  _ knife?  _

“Holy  _ shit,”  _ Leif exclaims, leaning over the table to examine the apparent murder weapon— or, at the very least, it committed  _ some _ kind of atrocity. Misunderstanding, Tobin swats his own hand away from the bread bowl, but Leif doesn’t  _ not  _ notice the three rolls he sneaks into the kangaroo pocket of his hoodie. “No, dude,  _ look,”  _ Leif says, grabbing Tobin’s arm and pointing at the damning evidence. The knife has been left lying haphazardly in between the food platters, possibly thrown over someone’s shoulder during a struggle. The blood on the blade is fresh, glinting crimson and splattered in neat little droplets over the white tablecloth.

“Oh, neat, it’s a waterproof tablecloth,” Tobin explains. “So any liquid spilled on it just beads up. Even blood.”

Leif leers at him like he’s sprouted a second head. “Are you really fangirling over a  _ tablecloth  _ right now?”

“Hey, makes it easier to collect a DNA sample,” Tobin points out, raising his palms. “But  _ anyway,  _ I’m guessing this is connected to that yell I heard. So—”

All of a sudden, he’s cut off by a new scream, this time way closer and very much audible to Leif’s ears. The pair look at each other, then look at the closed door leading to the next room. Without an ounce of hesitation to weigh them down, they burst through the door, which swings limply on its hinges as if it’s already been through plenty of abuse today.

They find themselves in the kitchen, and at last they have company again. Leif recognizes Autumn, the attractive blonde servant who announced lunch a little while ago. She’s now standing over a man who’s crouched on the floor and is holding a frying pan over her head, poised to strike. Her resemblance to Rapunzel from  _ Tangled,  _ albeit a bit more manic, is something Leif hates to find amusing. In the corner opposite from Autumn and her victim is another cook, who has his hands lifted above his head in a display of innocence.

“Whoa, whoa, whoa,” Tobin says, stepping carefully around an overturned pot, out of which a tragically delicious-looking stew has spilled. “Okay now, everybody calm down. What’s going on here?”

Nobody speaks for a solid thirty seconds, as five pairs of eyes dart around trying to size up everyone in the room. Leif risks taking a step forward, but his foot connects with the fallen soup pot, resulting in a piercing  _ clang. _ Out of nowhere, a fist flies directly into his face, knuckles colliding against his nose with surprisingly brute force. He stumbles backward, almost falling through the door into the dining room before he’s able to right himself. When his eyes open again, he finds Tobin staring at him in horror, his hand still partially lifted and closed in a fist. 

“Dude! What the  _ hell?” _ Leif spits, dabbing lightly at his nose with one sleeve.  _ Guess this cardigan is toast,  _ he thinks when he checks his arm to see blood smeared everywhere.

“I’m sorry!” Tobin sputters, snatching a few napkins from the counter and holding them up to Leif’s nose. “Oh god, I’m so sorry. You were— I thought— I mean, I thought you were someone coming up behind me... I didn’t mean...”

“Whatever,” Leif sighs, grimacing around the throbbing pain in his nose and pushing away Tobin and his bloody napkins.

“Seriously, bro, are you okay?” Tobin persists, worry carving deep grooves above his brow.

“I’m  _ fine—” _

“So... you two are the detectives Joan hired, huh?” 

Leif and Tobin look over at the unnamed cook, who has lowered his arms and crossed them over his broad chest instead. Underneath his bushy beard and heavyset brow, there’s a clear expression of skepticism.

But they don’t get a chance to answer him, because right then Autumn speaks up, “Get out of here, Howie. I’ll deal with them.” 

Howie obeys and walks out the back door which appears to open onto a little garden. Meanwhile, Tobin wheels around to stare down Autumn, who is only just giving the frying pan a break, setting it back on the counter. The guy she’s been towering over scoots away from her until he’s safely against the wall. “Hold up, I don’t know who you think you are,” Tobin says, “but we’re just here to investigate a murder. Unless there’s now a second one to report?”

To their utter astonishment, Autumn starts cackling. She’s doubled over for nearly a minute while the three men in the room stare dumbly at her. Eventually she’s able to wipe away the tears of laughter and clarify, “You’re talking about the bloody knife out there?” At Tobin’s hesitant nod, she snorts out a fresh batch of giggles, then says, “Oh, that’s just from another one of Joan’s theatrics with Ava. Don’t dwell on it too much.”

“Who’s Ava?” Leif demands. “And since you apparently know so much, where’s Joan? And where’s that Zoey girl? We didn’t get to finish our interview—”

Autumn tilts her head at them, pushing out her lower lip into a fake pout. “Aw, you mean that pathetic so-called ‘interrogation’ I had the displeasure of overhearing?” She drops the frills from her tone and continues on flatly, “Get real, guys. Joan isn’t going to tell you shit, because she’s  _ tired  _ of talking to people about Charlie. I mean, we  _ all  _ hated him. He treated us staff like shit, he treated his own  _ wife  _ like shit, he treated his own company like shit.”

Leif meets her stare evenly. “Joan hired us to investigate, so that’s what we’re gonna do.”

_ “Investigate?”  _ Autumn throws her hands up in the air. “What have you investigated so far, hmm? A randomly-placed bloody knife? Zoey’s oh-so-perfect puppy dog eyes? Come on. You didn’t even ask to see the scene of the crime yet.”

_ The garden.  _ “Okay, listen, dude-ette, our  _ method  _ takes time to pull off. Let us do our thing, and you—” Tobin starts, but she cuts him off, circling around the kitchen and throwing open cabinets to check inside them.

“Oh no. He’s gone.”

“Who?”

“The— the guy who was just...” Autumn groans, raking a hand through her ponytail, which is now hanging by a thread after the frenzy. “Max. Or I should say, the asshole who apparently likes to  _ cheat on me with lawyers!”  _ She raises her voice for the last few words, yelling after someone who is evidently long gone.

Recognition dawns in Leif’s mind, and he and Tobin spin to face each other, once again on the same page. “The butler!” they say together.

Before anyone can blink, however, there’s a loud rev of a car engine from outside. Panic blooms in Leif’s chest, and the pulsing pain in his nose goes temporarily numb, replaced by alarm. He and Tobin tear back through the house and out the front door.

Exactly as they feared, they discover the driver’s side door of their car hanging open, and someone is bent down under the steering wheel trying to hotwire it. “Hey!” Leif shouts, jogging up to the car. Tobin is right next to him, reaching to open the passenger door, but the car thief— Max, Leif realizes when he snags a pair of defiant brown eyes— slams his own door shut and locks them out of the car. Max slides on a pair of pink-tinted sunglasses, successfully getting the engine started as he shifts into gear.

“Yo, cool shades. But c’mon, man, you can’t take our car,” Tobin begs. “She’s my baby. Her name is Sally, and she should be treated like a lady, but right now you’re violat—”

“I don’t care, I’m getting out of here,” Max mutters, cutting off his rambling. He tries to drive forward, but Tobin launches himself through the open window, legs kicking wildly as he tries to land fully inside the car.

Everyone is yelling, including Leif. He isn’t sure what exactly he’s saying when he starts grappling with Tobin’s legs, trying to drag him back to safety. But he does catch a snippet of whatever Tobin is screaming at Max:  _ “It’s the butler!  _ It’s  _ always  _ the butler who does it, bro!  _ You’re  _ the killer!”

“Hey, just because I’m the butler does  _ not  _ mean it was me,” Max whines, a flash of genuine hurt passing over his face. “Now how about you let me go, because I promise you, I’m  _ innocent.”  _

Tobin frowns. “Dang. Thought it was worth a shot that you’d bend to the cliche and confess.”

“You’re not innocent, you’re— you’re stealing our  _ car,  _ dude,” Leif protests, and with one final tug he’s able to yank Tobin out of the window, catching him before he can faceplant into the driveway. They watch as the blue Subaru races away, gravel skittering around the tires.

Stirred-up dust clouds around them, caking in their hair and stinging their eyes. Tobin collapses to his knees, letting out a mournful wail. Leif is too busy comforting him to realize they’re being approached from behind. By the time he thinks there might be eyes watching them, it’s too late— something swings into the back of his head, and everything goes black.


	2. a brief gay interlude with zoey and joan :)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thanks for the comments so far! i'm happy to revel with y'all in the more chaotic side of these characters >:)
> 
> **please note there's (relatively) minor violence in this part, and (relatively) tame implied sex. and remember, basically nobody gives a fuck in this story. they're tired, i'm tired, we're all tired.
> 
> lyrics in this chapter from "demons" by hayley kiyoko.

_ Twenty-nine minutes earlier... _

“You know, that dress  _ really  _ is flattering on you, Joanie. It brings out your eyes.” Ava drops the rest of the way in through the window, a vicious red smirk painted on her lips. “I’m trying to remember where I saw it last— oh, that’s right! It was in that antidepressant ad in a 2003 issue of  _ Better Homes and Gardens.”  _

“Why are you here?” Joan growls, standing from her seat at the table. Zoey digs her teeth into her lower lip, her eyes scanning over Joan’s tensed muscles. Every hair on Zoey’s body is standing on end, but she’s ready to make a move at the slightest signal. For now, she stays in her chair, maintaining her hunched shoulders and deer-in-headlights expression.

“Was I not invited?” Ava hums, easily dodging the lasers Joan shoots from her glare. “I could’ve  _ sworn  _ you sent me something just  _ begging  _ for me to show up... was it a text? An email? A long,  _ desperate  _ phone call?”

Joan makes a gagging sound, matching Ava step for step as they strut along either side of the long dining table. “Well, it’s too little, too late,” she says. “Charlie’s already dead.  _ Been  _ dead for almost a week. Some assassin you are.”

Ava bats her eyelashes and tips her head to the side. “Ah. Well, I’m sorry to have missed it.” She comes to a halt behind Zoey’s chair. Her long, tapered fingers skim through the younger woman’s hair, manicured nails flashing like red claws among the auburn waves. Zoey stiffens at her touch but she doesn’t dare to move, only meeting Joan’s gaze silently across the table.

“Don’t touch her,” Joan orders, firmly planting her hands onto the table and leaning forward. The smell of roast beef and vegetables swirls into her nose, enticing but ill-timed for the situation.

“Or else what?” Ava taunts. “What are you gonna do to me, Joan, hm? You really want to add to your criminal record today?” She flicks a switchblade out of her sleeve and in a flash the side of it is pressed against Zoey’s throat. Ava peers down at Zoey with unbridled disgust. “So  _ this  _ is the scrap of sweater fleece you chose over me, huh? Think banging someone twenty years younger will give your pathetic existence a much-needed boost?” Ava gives a harsh laugh that is just as unrestrained as the hand holding the blade, which slips a little. A bead of scarlet forms from the tiny cut on Zoey’s neck, and Joan’s stomach turns. Ava jerks Zoey all the way back in the chair, tracing the sharp edge millimeters away from the soft skin. “Trading in for a newer model isn’t always better, Joanie,” Ava continues. Zoey chokes out for air, which only makes Ava grasp her tighter. “There’s a reason people like to collect classic cars, y’know.”

In reality, Joan only hesitates for half a second, but in her mind it feels like forever. She casts a swift glance over her shoulder, praying those bumbling idiots she hired won’t choose this moment to pop back up. She then disguises the look into a rapid weapon search, and it doesn’t take long for her to find something suitable: the butcher knife in the center of the table. It was meant to slice the roast beef, but it looks like it’ll be doing a little more than that this time. With some effort, Joan manages to wrench the knife out from where it was embedded in the meat. She aims it at Ava, her eyes like ice cubes pressing into bare skin.

“Get your fucking hands off of her,” Joan threatens. If looks alone could freeze someone, Ava would be encased in a frosty block of ice by now. “You don’t want me to have to use this, do you?”

Zoey’s throat visibly wobbles around the blade. Her eyes haven’t left Joan for a single second, and finally Joan’s gaze flicks back down to her again. Zoey mouths a single word at her, her plump lips barely moving to form the syllable. “ _ Now?”  _ Joan hesitates, then gives her a subtle nod.

All at once, Zoey fastens a hand on Ava’s wrist, her nimble fingers easily jerking the switchblade away from her neck. When Ava stumbles forward in surprise, Zoey uses her other hand to snatch up the weapon for her own use while twisting Ava’s arm until she lets out a roar of pain. She manages to tear herself free from Zoey’s grip, but she’s left unarmed.

Joan then clears the table in one neat leap, slamming both feet into Ava’s chest to knock her back. The heels of her Louboutins dig in deep, and Joan gives a grunt of satisfaction as she braces herself back against the table. She still has the butcher knife in hand and is almost ready to forget about it when Ava decides to try regaining control of the switchblade. She ambushes Zoey from behind, pouncing on her and tugging hard on her hair. Hearing Zoey’s resulting yelp makes Joan’s heart thump painfully in her chest.

Fury pooling in her muscles, Joan surges forward again, brandishing the giant knife high above her head. The other two are brawling on the floor, and Joan has to wait until Ava is on top before she can strike. She watches with momentary dismay as Ava slams Zoey onto her back, ramming a knee in her chest so that she’s once again gasping for air. Ava reaches up, pinning Zoey by the wrists and using every last ounce of body weight to hold her down. She claws at Zoey’s hands, but finds them empty. “Where the fuck is it, you little bitch?” Ava demands, anger forming a delirious fog to choke her sanity. “What did you do with my—”

Joan smirks when Zoey offers her opponent nothing more than a coy smile; but, of course, it’s more than just a smile, because perched delicately between her teeth is the switchblade.  _ “How?”  _ Ava cries, helplessly befuddled. In response, Zoey again takes advantage of her shocked state to rip one arm free, grab the blade, and point it at Ava’s chest directly over her heart.

“It’s okay, hon, I’ll take care of her,” Joan pipes up. Zoey nods, wiggling herself out from under Ava with remarkable ease. Joan bends down, gathering Ava’s jacket in a fist and hauling her back to her feet. “I’d turn you around so you can see my face when I do this,” she murmurs, lips ghosting over the shell of Ava’s ear, “but I kinda like being a backstabber.” She then brings the knife down, plunging it through Ava’s left shoulder. Joan wastes no time removing it, creating a flawless arc of blood in midair as she tosses the knife back onto the table. When Joan lets go of her, Ava drops to the floor instantly, rasping out something unintelligible. Joan’s thinking she probably punctured a lung, though with the way she aimed, the point also could’ve nicked an artery or two.

Zoey’s bent over a few feet away, hands on her knees while she catches her breath. Joan takes a moment to admire the minimal damage inflicted on her nice dining room, then pants, “Help me out?”

“Of course.” Zoey straightens, briefly pressing a couple fingers to her neck to check the cut and finding it already scabbed over. Then she comes over and slides her hands under Ava’s arms, hoisting her limp body up by one end. Joan takes her legs, gritting her teeth as she balances an ankle on either of her shoulders. She leads the way, backing out of the room, down the hall, and up the stairs. The entire time Zoey stares steadily at her, her face neutral except for her eyes, which are smoldering with an intensity that makes something stir in Joan’s core.

They make it upstairs, where Joan guides them into one of the guest bedrooms. She drops Ava’s legs and turns to shove open the window and punch out the screen. “I think we’ll  _ drop  _ her off here,” Zoey says, earning an eye roll from her companion. Together, they heave Ava’s body up and out the window. Zoey immediately throws her hands over her ears while Joan waits to hear the satisfying  _ thud  _ that ensues. But then there’s a yell. Joan and Zoey lean out the window and peer into the vast backyard to see Howie and Eddie down below on the patio, standing around Ava’s twisted body. Eddie flicks some ash off his cigarette and sticks it back in his mouth while Howie squints up at them. Ah, shit. Ava must’ve disturbed their smoke break— how rude of her to barge in unannounced like that.

“Really, Joan? Again?” Howie chides.

Joan shrugs at him. “We’ll get her later. Don’t worry about it.” Then she leans back in and shuts the window, fixing Zoey with a sly smile. “So... maybe I went a  _ teensy  _ bit overboard there. But first she insulted one of Mo’s fabulous outfits,” she says, smoothing over her dress (which miraculously hasn’t suffered a single wrinkle from the fight), “and  _ then  _ she threatened you...” Her words trail off into a low growl when Zoey stands on her toes to wrap her arms behind Joan’s neck, urging the taller woman down to her level. 

“No,” Zoey hums, nipping at her earlobe, “it was  _ hot.”  _ She runs her lips over Joan’s jawbone, peppering tiny kisses along the edge of her throat before reaching the sensitive hollow above her sternum. “Tragic, but hot.”

Overcome, Joan can only mumble Zoey’s name, which tingles on her lips like champagne fizz. She throws her head back, allowing Zoey free access to bite and suck at her neck as she pleases. Not willing to hand over total control, however, Joan swings Zoey over to the nearest wall. Her girlfriend is tiny, so it’s all too easy to lift her up against the floral wallpaper— but she’s none too easy to please. Still, Joan at least knows where to start. Using a knee to hitch up Zoey’s skirt, Joan cradles her face with one hand and brings their lips back together while she makes good use of her other hand down below.

Zoey whimpers into her mouth, but to Joan’s surprise she breaks the kiss to pant, “Did... did you hear that?”

“Hear what?” Joan mutters, stroking the tender skin on Zoey’s thighs. Her hand has never felt more at home than it does when it’s between the legs of Zoey Clarke.

“Commotion—” Zoey gasps when Joan’s hand migrates again. Her face is the picture of ecstasy, pert nose tilted upward and kiss-swollen lips hanging open. Pride swells in Joan’s chest knowing that it’s  _ her  _ making Zoey feel this good.

“What commotion, hon?” 

Zoey grits her teeth, clearly trying to rein in her focus. “Downstairs,” she says.

Joan resists rolling her eyes for the millionth time today. It’s probably those two from Dumb and Dumber Detectives, Inc. Despite the fact they’re technically intruders in her home, Joan struggles to find any reason to care when she has Zoey shuddering and moaning in her arms. “Okay, but they’re down there, and we’re”— she pauses to peck the corner of Zoey’s mouth— “up here.” She stops again, straining to find a solution in a mind foggy with arousal. Then it comes to her— “Alexa, put on my playlist,” she commands, and the device in the corner wakes up to play a song with a steady electronic beat. Joan glances back at Zoey with a smirk. “There. No more downstairs noise.”

Zoey sighs through her nose, brushing hair out of Joan’s face. “Okay,” she gives in, “but remember the plan—”

“I know. I’ll listen for it, I promise,” Joan says, cutting her off with another greedy kiss. God, she could snack on Zoey’s lips for days on end. Back on track, Zoey steers them toward the bed while music fills the room, closing them into their own little world.

_ There’s something in the water _

_ I don’t like the flavor, I don’t like the taste _

_ Searching for nirvana _

_ Something that’ll take it all away from me... _

_ Please forgive me, I’ve got demons in my head, in my head _

_ Please forgive me, I’ve got demons in my head _

_ Tryna eat me, tryna feed me lies until I’m dead, ‘til I’m dead _

_ Please forgive me, I’ve got demons in my head _

_ In my head  _


	3. a ridiculous end

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> and here's the final installment... thanks to those who read!
> 
> lyrics in this part from "na na na" by my chemical romance.

Leif gradually stirs awake, a pained groan nearly ripping his throat in half. The first sensation he’s aware of is the incessant ache drumming at the base of his skull. His eyes slide open. His vision is blocked by hair falling in his face, clumpy from the hair gel he used this morning (which now feels more like a hundred years ago). Raw fear claws at his stomach. Tobin.  _ Fuck.  _ Where’s Tobin?

Keeping his motions swift and quiet, Leif swipes away the obstacle and is greeted with the ceiling of a car. The ceiling of a  _ moving  _ car, he realizes as he feels them lean into a turn. He’s stretched out across the backseat with a strip of duct tape secured over his mouth. His arms are being held above him, and when he attempts a tug to free himself, they won’t budge. Leif looks up to see his wrists are bound together with a zip tie, twisted into an unnatural position where the backs of his hands are pressed together. A second zip tie connects him to the handle above the car window, leaving him utterly trapped.

Now that he’s made sense of his situation, his mind launches into overdrive. He does his best to shimmy into a more comfortable sitting position, the armrest in the car door biting painfully into his spine. Already Leif can tell his phone is of course missing from its usual place in his back pocket.  _ Shit. Shit. Shit.  _

He glances around, eyes hungry for details. He seems to be in an SUV, but the windows are tinted too dark for him to make out anything outside. Tobin is nowhere to be found; Leif’s heart jumps into his throat, where it thuds unbearably fast.

Then, at last, he risks a look at whoever is in the front of the car. He knows he’s more shocked than he should be to recognize Joan, relaxed and lounging in the passenger seat as if she’s at the spa. Then his eyes flick to the driver, who is more difficult to catch a glimpse of thanks to him being situated directly behind them. But as soon as he sees a flash of wavy red hair, it’s easy to figure out that innocent little Zoey is behind the steering wheel.

Before Leif can think up a way out of this unfortunate situation— which, to be fair, would take a while— Joan’s eyes suddenly pop open and she peers back at him with a bored expression. “Oh, lovely. Sheldon Cooper’s awake,” she announces.

There’s a tiny snort from Zoey, who otherwise remains mute. Joan leans into the backseat and tears the duct tape off Leif’s face. The pain renders him blind for a moment; it’s even worse than the time he and Tobin attempted to self-wax at home. (That had been a day filled with copious amounts of ice packs, lotion, and regret.)

“Afternoon, sweetheart,” Joan greets him. “Have a good nap?”

“Where’s Tobin?” Leif seethes, eyes still watering from the sting around his mouth.

Joan frowns at him. “Who?”

“I said, where. Is. He!” Leif barks. Instinct urges him to struggle against his restraints, which is of course pointless.

“Okay, okay, chill out! He’s in the back,” Joan snaps, jerking her head in the direction of the cargo hold behind the backseat. 

Leif’s heart leaps. He’s here. He’s with them! “Tobin!” he shouts, stretching to peek into the space behind his row of seats. “Tobin, buddy. Please tell me you’re back there!” When he receives no response, Leif lets out a hopeless moan and slams back against the icy window.

“Don’t get your cardigan in a twist. He’s not dead, just sleeping still,” Joan tells him. She turns to stare out the windshield again. “You know, it’s cute how much you care about him. How long have you two been sleeping together?”

Leif’s brain short circuits. He sputters for a minute, trying to comprehend her question and whether or not she deserves an answer. It’s a messy subject between him and Tobin, something they haven’t really defined yet. But once Leif has floundered for a few too many embarrassing seconds, he doesn’t doubt the words that leave his mouth. “We’re boyfriends, actually,” he says. “A- and even if we weren’t, I’d still lay down my life for him. Because above all, he’s my best friend.”

Just then, there’s a muffled cry from behind him. This time when Leif’s heart leaps, it completely loses control and falls right into Tobin’s hands. Leif jerks up again, wishing he could see into the cargo hold. “Tobin!” he calls. “Dude, it’s me. We’re okay. I’m here. You’re not alone.”

“Awake just in time,” Joan praises. Her hand falls onto Zoey’s shoulder. “Pull over, hon.”

Zoey guides the car onto the shoulder, and Joan hops out. Leif tries not to tremble as he wonders what she could possibly be doing. However, not even five seconds pass before the door his feet are touching is opened, giving him a view of dense forest. “What the hell?” he mumbles. Then he watches as Joan heaves open the cargo door. Leif can barely discern a foot lashing out to kick her in the face, but she expertly dodges it with a sidestep and a bitter chuckle. Admiration flutters in Leif’s gut; at least Tobin tried to fight back. Joan takes ahold of him and hauls him out of the car, the slam of the cargo door muffling Tobin’s panicked shouts. She lugs him around to the other side of the backseat from Leif, who scrambles to tuck his legs close to his body and make room.

“I can’t believe the two of you were able to carry us when we were knocked out,” Leif remarks, wrinkling his nose at her as she produces a second zip tie from her pocket.

“We’re women, not moths,” Joan scoffs. “And anyway, we have the expertise.”

When his eyes land on his partner, Leif’s face falls. Tobin’s wrists are also bound together by a zip tie, which Joan proceeds to loop the second one through, tethering him to the handle above the window just like Leif has been. But not only did Tobin also receive the duct tape treatment— the women shoved a backwards ski mask over his head too, plunging him in complete darkness. Joan removes the mask, and Tobin only has a second to fix a pair of terrified brown eyes on Leif before she promptly rips the tape off his mouth.

Tobin utters a strangled swear, grimacing and rubbing at his now patchy beard. He peers over at Leif again, the picture of dejection. Tobin could very well be an old sponge that’s had every last drop of spirit wrung out of him.

“What’s the damage?” he mutters, motioning at his facial hair. Leif winces, and Tobin nods, his fears confirmed.

By now Joan has resumed her seat and they’ve gotten back on the road. Judging by the sliver of windshield he can see, Leif guesses they’re heading back towards the city. At the opposite end of the backseat, Tobin has curled himself into a tight ball, chin perched between his knees as he gazes at the floor.

“So, Toby,” Joan speaks up, glancing into the side mirror to check on him, “that’s your name, right?” Tobin silently corrects her with a brutal scowl, and she continues, “Your boyfriend and I were talking right when you woke up. He is  _ whipped  _ for you, big time.”

Tobin’s expression doesn’t change when he replies, “I could say the same about you and Red.”

Joan’s face pales, but her voice is steady when she says, “Okay, so you’re observant. That’s part of your job description.” One of her arms slithers across the console to caress Zoey’s shoulders. “But Zoey here isn’t the one who made me realize I’m a lesbian.”

“I thought you were American,” Tobin quips. He sends a wink over to Leif, who for once can appreciate a Vine reference because that means Tobin is being  _ Tobin  _ again.

Leif’s expression quickly sobers, however, when he’s reminded of their predicament. Shifting in his seat, he glares over at Joan until she returns the eye contact. “So what are you gonna do to us, hm? What did we do so wrong that you had to steal our car and kidnap us?”

“Oh, boo-hoo, so your ridiculous little putt-putt car got taken—”

Tobin interrupts. “Watch it, dude, she had 310 horsepower and was a million times better than the shitty old Buick we got from Leif’s mom.”

_ “Anyway, _ the car stealing thing was Zoey’s idea, not mine,” Joan says, playing with a curl of Zoey’s hair. “And it was a damn good idea, too.”

“So you  _ were  _ all working together,” Leif muses. “It was all an act. I should’ve known from the start.”

Joan laughs. “Sure, I guess you could say that. We all bonded over our mutual hate of Charlie, that awful excuse for a human being. He cheated on me about a million times, but so did I. The marriage was just a business agreement, anyway. And Zoey was his assistant for years, but he treated her like a damn dog, telling her ‘good girl’ and ‘fetch.’ Eventually the lazy bastard refused to even run his own company anymore. The thousands of coders working under him were played for fools, distracted from the low pay and endless hours by the lure of working at a well-known company in a highly sought-after position. One day, we decided enough was enough.”

“Aaaand I may or may not have hacked a  _ ton _ of SPRQ Point’s data from right under his nose.” Zoey shrugs, and Leif catches her expression in the rearview mirror; she looks calm as can be, as if they’re merely discussing the weather. He can’t believe this is the same person he met a few hours ago.

Joan nods. “We didn’t want him to find that out, so...” She draws a line across her neck.

“That’s great and all, but why  _ us?  _ What did we do wrong? Why track us down and hire us to investigate a murder you committed yourself?” Leif asks.

“Well, now you know too much,” Joan says simply. “You two were no coincidence— though I’ll confess that at first, you were just meant to be a cover so we’d look less suspicious to the cops. Hire our own private detectives, give them a sob story about a break-in, and have a list of names of people in the business world who wanted Charlie’s head on a platter. But that was my mistake— hiring you two specifically. I had a vendetta against you from the beginning.”

“Bro,  _ what  _ vendetta?” Tobin wonders.

Suddenly, the car comes to a halt, and Leif can vaguely tell they’re in the city now. Joan rolls down her window only halfway, and though it crosses Leif’s mind to call out for help at passing pedestrians, he’s too struck by what he sees outside to find his voice. Joan points at the familiar building, her eyes narrowed to icy shards when she turns back to face her captives. “You guys did business with Charlie.”

“Wha—” Tobin starts, until recognition dawns on his face.  _ “Ohhh.”  _

“You were going to rent out the fifth floor of the SPRQ Point building for your stupid detective business, but then you backed out.” Joan tips her head to the side, gaze flashing back and forth between them. “Why?”

Tobin lets out a low whistle. “I mean... we got bad vibes, I guess. When we took our tour, the fifth floor was still under construction, and it was hella creepy. It seemed like—”

“— a place where someone would get murdered,” Leif finishes. “But we also got bad vibes from Charlie himself. When we heard he was dead, we... well, we were curious.”

Joan lets the words absorb for a moment, then says, “You know, I almost wish you  _ had  _ followed through with it and signed the contract with him, because chances are you two would’ve screwed him over big time. I mean, your credit score is in the toilet,” she says, nodding at Leif, “and  _ you  _ are wanted in like five states for marijuana possession—”

“Six states, actually,” Tobin interjects proudly.

“—  _ and  _ on top of that you had a three-year stint in prison for hacking the shit out of private shares in Google and embezzling millions.”

_ “And  _ don’t forget I also hacked UC Berkeley’s entire grading network because my man here,” Tobin says, bumping Leif’s knee affectionately, “was failing English Lit 81. And I erased, like,  _ everyone’s  _ student loan debt, while I was it. I’ve also moonlighted as a stripper and I dabbled in being that dude inside the mascot suit at an amusement park. So yeah, I guess you could say I’ve got  _ all  _ the skills.”

Joan blinks several times in disbelief. “I mean seriously,” she mumbles, exchanging a glance with Zoey, “holy  _ shit.”  _

“Damn,” Zoey agrees. “Not so harmless, after all.”

Tobin dips his head humbly, then lifts his chin again, eyes shining. “I could be reading the situation wrong, but I feel like we might be lowkey vibing here? So just know I’d give you both a celebratory fist-bump right now if I could.” After a pause during which Joan treats them to another fantastic eye roll and Zoey rubs her nose awkwardly, Tobin says, “Now, it’d be cool if we could get to the murder part.”

Joan sets her mouth in a straight line as she turns to him. The only thing thinner than her patience right now are her lips. “What about it?” she sighs.

“You guys didn’t kill Charlie,” Tobin says cheerfully, using the same tone he has when he and Leif discuss where to get takeout from. He leans back against the headrest, grinning broadly at Leif. “Neither Red nor the termagant did it.”

“Termagant?” Joan mutters in confusion.

If Leif weren’t positively lost, he would smile at the callback to their spelling bee days. “Dude, what do you mean? Obviously they’re capable of violence.”

Tobin shakes his head. “Sure, but that doesn’t mean they did the actual deed. Remember that cool gardener lady Maggie? The first person we met at the Bennett estate?”

Leif pins him with an incredulous stare. “You’re not telling me that sweet old woman killed Charlie Bennett.”

“Fine, I won’t, but at least let me explain it. The autopsy report stated Charlie was killed when his throat was slit, and that was the only contributing factor to his death. So it had to be done in one quick and easy motion. Only thing is, they had no clue what kind of weapon was used, because the shape and depth of the cut was unlike any traditional knife or blade.” Yet again, Tobin is deep in one of his commentaries, the kind Leif pretends to hate but actually adores. If Tobin’s hands weren’t tied up, Leif knows he would be waving them all around to emphasize his words. “So yeah, turns out Maggie’s garden shears are more badass than we originally thought. When she was telling us about her poor, traumatized daughter— big fat LMAO at that, by the way— I noticed flecks of dark red paint all over the handles of the shears.”

“Right,” Leif says, prompting him to go on.

“So I asked ol’ Mags if she had any major painting jobs recently, like her tool shed or something, maybe. Well, homegirl did  _ not  _ catch my drift at all, so she was like, ‘Oh yeah, I painted the dining room a little while ago.’ And I said—”

“You asked her if she painted it a nice, deep red,” Leif remembers, a smirk growing on his face. “And she said—”

“‘Oh, no, I painted it a nice lovely blue.’  _ Blue!  _ Our girl  _ panicked.”  _ Tobin cackles. “Leif, my beautiful, brave beanpole, what color was that dining room when we saw it?”

If Leif could spring up out of his seat and point an accusatory finger, he would. “Pale yellow!” he declares.  _ “Wow.  _ So Charlie was killed by a pair of gardening shears. And— and it wasn’t that Zoey  _ discovered  _ him in the garden; she was already there to beat him up a little, and that’s where the self-defense wounds on his hands came from. With him caught off-guard, it was too easy for anyone to come up from behind and drag those shears right across his throat, splattering blood all over the handles!”

Tobin nods slowly. “I concur, good sir. It was a mother-daughter job from start to finish. Sneaky, but not  _ too  _ sneaky for Donnelly & Batra Mystery, Inc.”

There’s about half a minute of silence, then surprisingly Zoey is the first to speak. But what she has to say is not what Leif was expecting. “So... you  _ do  _ know you guys are ripping off Scooby Doo with that business name, right?”

Meanwhile, Joan is clapping. “Well done, Loaf and Toby. Well done. I guess I underestimated you. I mean, we were planning to take you two up to the fifth floor and prove that murders  _ can  _ indeed happen up there, but... I think you could be useful to us.” She glances over at Zoey, who doesn’t seem inclined to argue.

Tobin looks her over appraisingly. “Oh, yeah? What’s in it for us, besides escaping inevitable death?”

“Umm.” Joan shrugs. “We could... get your car back?” Again she turns to Zoey. “Can we do that?”

Zoey nods. “We can do that.”

_ “If,”  _ Joan says, her tone taking a sharp turn, “if you two keep your mouths shut. We finally have the company in our hands, and we’re going to set things right. Our morality might be a little misguided, but so is yours, clearly.”

“We’re going to fix things for the greater good at SPRQ Point, starting with adding cereal and omelet bars, because those are amazing,” Zoey tells them. “So we can’t let anyone get in our way now.”

“Otherwise,” Joan says, and she drags her finger over her throat again. 

Leif narrows his eyes at them. “How about you get us our car  _ and  _ a couple of jobs on the sixth floor?”

Joan clicks her tongue in thought. “Hmm. Best I can do is fourth floor.”

“Fine.”

“Ooh, great. You’ll be with me on the fourth floor.” Zoey smirks, and Leif can’t help but feel a prickle of fear when he looks at her. Man, talk about not judging books by their cover. 

Before Leif can pull Tobin into his celebration, Tobin says, “But wait, there’s one more thing. Your ex-lawyer Simon— he said Charlie’s will left SPRQ Point to his 15-year-old nephew.”

Joan’s face scrunches up like a sheet of tissue paper. “He said that to you? Ugh, what an asshole. I can’t believe him!” Her mouth drops open while Zoey shakes her head, looking the opposite of appalled. “No, no, no, that is _far_ from the truth. Leaving his company to little Danny Michael Davis?” She snorts. _“Please._ He totally said that to make it look like I had even more motive. I bet you anything Simon was just pissed I finally fired him after yelling at him for sleeping with my butler _again._ You have no idea how many times I walked in one those two in _my_ house.”

Zoey winces. “To be fair, poor Max has walked in on us a lot, too. But at the same time, Autumn deserves better.”

Joan nods. “At the very least, they could’ve invited her into the relationship.”

Leif’s head is spinning. “Wow. Okay. So Simon and— that guy who Autumn almost hit over the head with a frying pan—”

“— and then who stole my Sally?” Tobin fumes.

“Yeah, we’re definitely getting your car back,” Joan says. “I’ll make the call to Autumn. Zoey, you drive.”

With that, the car pulls away from the curb and they take off again, weaving through the hilly streets of San Francisco. Leif leans forward, his arms aching. “Hey, um, you guys think you could get rid of these zip ties? My arms have been numb for almost twenty minutes now and—”

“Later,” Joan dismisses him.

“I have a more fun request,” Tobin pipes up. “Bone-crushin’ Joan, up on her throne, coolest lady I’ve ever known, why don’t you go ‘head and gimme my phone?”

“Did you just rap?”

“Yes. Yes, I did. Did you like it?”

“No,” Joan says, frowning. “Not one bit. But, um, why do you want your phone back?”

Tobin shrugs his shoulders— or, at least, shrugs them as best he can. Leif suppresses a chuckle, because he kind of looks like a marionette puppet suspended by his own arms. “Technically I don’t have to do it myself, but this car is in desperate need of some  _ sick  _ tunes, and I know just the thing to remedy that.”

Leif’s jaw drops. “Bro,” he says.

“Bro, indeed,” Tobin grins. “Joan, would you be a dear and connect my phone to the aux— yep, it’s the one with the Baby Yoda case— and continue where Chief Leif and I left off on Spotify?”

A few moments later, the sweet sound of MCR fills the car. Zoey grits her teeth and focuses on the road, while Joan tries not to let the headache building in her temples take the win. Tobin and Leif rapidly bob their heads, belting out the lyrics as if they’re in the front row of a concert and not sitting with their wrists bound in the backseat of a car with their captors-turned-allies in the front.

In between verses, Leif glances over at Tobin. The sunset outside slices through the glass in the windshield, turning his eyes bronze. As gorgeous as that is, Tobin’s smile still outshines it, directing his own unique beam of light right into Leif’s chest. 

Leif isn’t quite sure how he could ever say “no homo” to a face like  _ that.  _ The two of them already long ago accepted they couldn’t say “no emo” to each other; now Leif thinks it’s about time to add a new item to that list. But then, as always, Tobin reads his mind and beats him to the punch.

“Hey,” Tobin leans over to mutter in his ear, his lips grazing Leif’s skin accidentally-on-purpose. “I’m sorry again about, um, punching you.”

“It’s okay.”

“And... I thought you should know... I heard what you said earlier. About us being... boyfriends.”

Leif stares at him, unsure how to respond at first. He’s sure as hell grateful for the loud music, because it protects this private conversation from Joan and Zoey sitting up front. Not that this would be news to them, but still.

Tobin isn’t fazed by Leif’s hesitation; and where Leif falters, he’s eager to fill in the blank. “Homo?” he asks seriously.

“Homo,” Leif agrees. Then he leans in for a quick kiss, because they don’t have much time before the next verse in the song starts up. Oh, yeah— and they’re kind of on a car chase right now.

_ Everybody wants to change the world _

_ Everybody wants to change the world _

_ But no one, no one wants to die _

_ Wanna try, wanna try, wanna try _

_ Wanna try, wanna try now _

_ I’ll be your detonator _

_ Na, na na na, na na na, na na na na... _


End file.
